


Love and Freindship

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 18th Century, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Emma - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Jane Austen's Letters, Juvenilia, M/M, Mansfield Park - Freeform, Mini Bang, Multi, Northanger Abbey - Freeform, Persuasion - Freeform, Sense and Sensibility - Freeform, pride and prejudice - Freeform, source materials include:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a ball in January of 1796, a young Jane Austen and her friend observe two handsome gentlemen who behave rather more like lovers than indifferent acquaintances. Their attentions to one another spark Miss Austen's imagination, and she spins their encounter into an epistolary tale of queer love masquerading under the veil of friendship in Georgian England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Freindship

**Author's Note:**

> All spelling "errors" are deliberate and in keeping with the style of Jane Austen's letters and early unpublished writings.

Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014: mini bang

 **Title:** Love and Freindship  
 **Author:**[undersail2013](http://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013)  
 **Artist:**[chemart](http://chemart.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom/Genre:** Supernatural  
 **Pairing (s):** Dean/Castiel, Jo/Anna, Sam/Ruby, implied Krissy/Bela/Cassie, implied Castiel/Meg, Dean/Lydia, Castiel/Amelia, Claire/Emma; Jane Austen/Alethea Bigg  
 **Rating:** Teen and Up  
 **Word Count:** 17,022  
 **Warnings:** homophobia; some sexual content, light bondage; mentions of past bullying, physical abuse, gambling, drinking; hella gay 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10536/10536_300.jpg)

**Summary:** At a ball in January of 1796, a young Jane Austen and her friend observe two handsome gentlemen who behave rather more like lovers than indifferent acquaintances. Their attentions to one another spark Miss Austen's imagination, and she spins their encounter into an epistolary tale of queer love masquerading under the veil of friendship in Georgian England.

(Please note: all spelling "errors" are deliberate and in keeping with the style of Jane Austen's letters and early unpublished writings.)

 **Betas:** [oneoddkitteh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OneOddKitteh/pseuds/OneOddKitteh), [perdition-401](http://perdition-401.tumblr.com/)  
Special thanks to [winchesteralex](http://winchesteralex.tumblr.com/) for the loan of her Alex.

 **Fic link:** [Fic Masterlist](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2248146)  
 **Art link:** [Art Masterlist](http://chemart.livejournal.com/748.html)

 

 

 

 

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/11711/11711_300.jpg)

 

 

 _Steventon Monday 18 January 1796_

 _My dear Alethea,_

 _Since our ball of Friday last, I have had a few further thoughts on the handsome gentlemen we observed. Mr Tom Lefroy, yes; of course I have thought volumes of him and how very dull I shall be without his innumerable smiles to cheer me! Though how very active my imagination will be in his absence! I have thought also of how you would have shed such tears of gratitude not to dance with James again; of all my brothers he is by far the least suited to the frivolity of a ball. No, it is not in pining for my Mr Lefroy nor in laughter at a thoroughly uncoordinated brother that I spend many a restless hour, for you know the two gentlemen of whom I speak! I shall not speak of them further at present, but rest assured my dear, you will have an earful just as soon as may be …_

 _… I have written so little and yet I am come to the end of my news! Do not be angry with me for not filling my sheet & beleive me yours affectionately_

 _Jane_

 _Miss Bigg_  
 _Manydown_

 

Monday, 18 January 1796

Dearest Alethea, you have found my secret note; you are a clever girl! I have enclosed the full story here, separately from the main letter, on the assumption that my plainer missive will certainly fall into the hands of some one or other of your sisters.

As to our two gentlemen, the two who barely glanced at a single lady the whole of the night; the two whose eyes remained fixed the one upon the other, wherever he may roam; the two who sat more closely than even my Irish freind and I, which will make you laugh. I do beleive you are correct in what you say about them, they must certainly be interested in developing a closer acquaintance, but not, as you say, for the sake of their sisters. On the contrary, I beleive the sisters more likely to form a freindship for their brothers’ benefit- oh my dear sweet ’Thea, you cannot doubt that I mean for them to fall in love!

I have been unable to think of aught but these two beautiful gentlemen these two days together and now I must share with you the fruits of my pleasant labors. You will find the behaviour of the two gentlemen as I put it down here to be quite shocking, I am sure, which is certainly not my intent, no never! You know I could never be easy when I well know how your cheeks will go quite pink and you will gasp like anything! And yet, see what I have devised:

Our Mr Winchester (for so I will call the taller one with the sandy-coloured hair and the myriad freckles speckling his pretty cheeks) listens to his sister’s jests about Castiel, Lord Novak, the young baron with the peircing blue eyes and the dark tousled mop (no wigs and powder for our fresh-faced boys!), but he declines to join her game. He hides his smiles behind his hand, though whether he pretends not to smile at Miss Winchester or the peer remains to be seen.

The fair-haired beauty prattles on: “He was at the ball last week, in the company of Mr Lefroy. There was not a lady in the room who could attract his gaze, though Miss Jane did try. I thought she would turn absolutely monstrous- she was wild to dance with him! The coldest, most unfeeling a man who ever cursed a ballroom with his presence. No, dear brother, I do not find him attractive in the least. I am by no means-”

“He is looking this way,” Mr Winchester tells her in a harsh whisper. “Pray stop talking. He can hear you.”

“La, I don’t care a whit if he does hear me, he-”

“Josephine!”

She startles at the use of her full name; between themselves, of course, our indolent Mr Winchester never refers to his sweet sister as anything but Jo. Why should he speak three syllables where one will suffice?

“Josephine, he sees us watching him, and he is coming this way,” he says through his teeth.

“Now, if Lord Novak of all people should ask you to dance-”

“No. No, Dean, I couldn’t-” she starts to argue. But her brother’s eyes plead, and she relents. She straightens her skirts primly and replies, “Very well, dear brother, if it please you.”

His broad smile is her reward.

Lord Novak approaches, with his sister, The Honourable Anna Novak, on his arm. Dean and Jo both stare in admiration at her auburn tresses, barely restrained by a fine net snood and charmingly adorned with silver ornaments. “It is a delight to see you again so soon,” Miss Novak greets the young woman before them. Her voice betrays no emotion and her penetrating eyes linger upon Mr Winchester. “Brother, I beleive you are a little acquainted with Miss Winchester.”

He agrees and begs that she will, in her turn, acquaint him with her companion.

Jo does so, somewhat awkwardly. Though she disdains Lord Novak specifically, she is flustered generally by any gentleman greater than a knight. Nevertheless, His Lordship seems more amused than insulted by her barbarism, as he himself is given to awkwardness, and proceeds to ask if she would dance the next two with him. His eyes drift towards her brother as he speaks, as if asking his permission as well.

 

 

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/9780/9780_300.jpg)

When she gives her consent, her brother is emboldened to ask Miss Novak if she is otherwise engaged. As she is not, she agrees to stand up with him.

The four dance divinely, as befits heroes and heroines. In a most peculiar turn of events, however, the narrator must observe that Mr Winchester reserves his brightest smiles not for his fair partner, shining paragon of female virtue that she is, but for her handsome brother, he of sharp eyes and soft smiles.

This author cannot speak too highly of Lord Novak’s beauty. His blue eyes that glow with an ethereal grace, his dark hair, unruly and mussed in a most shocking manner, the dear cleft in his chin, though all suffused with a haughtiness to mar the whole. Certainly Miss Winchester shivers to feel the ice in his stare, as her sunny smiles fall before his cold countenance on the dance floor. He does not smile as he dances. He does not make small talk nor does he seek to plumb the depths of human philosophy. Nor indeed does he pay his young partner much mind at all, his eyes fixed on the man before him in the dance, as if he might lose a step if he should fail to follow.

In truth, Lord Novak could not have chosen a more suitable guide than Mr Winchester. Long considered the finest dancer in the county, Mr Winchester is much sought after by all the young ladies, much to the chagrin of their understandably nervous mothers. For Dean Winchester is also considered the most profligate scoundrel. Though a gentleman and landed, his reputation for drinking, gambling, and for other such activities has barred him from many a respectable home. Already one sister has married well but hastily, to a foolish young man of two or three thousand a year, an attachment formed in Lyme Regis and finished in Gretna-Green and so contrived to allow her escape from her brother’s besmirched shadow. Their brother also betook himself to school in Berkshire, rather than Hampshire’s own _Collegium Beatae Mariae Wintoniensis prope Winton,_ as soon as Father could be prevailed upon to give his consent. Soon even the reckless and insouciant Josephine will begin to appreciate why the richest and prettiest men give her a wide berth.

It is for this reason that the sight of the proud Novaks of Elysium in Derbyshire going down the dance with the Winchesters of Hampshire becomes the favourite gossip in three counties. Lord Novak and his sister, who receive no one they have not known since their infancy, who visit only as courtesy demands, are known not only to open the drawing room of their temporary quarters at Garrison House to the likes of Mr Winchester and his vivacious sister, but also to grace the small sitting room at Chevrolet in return.

The news makes the younger, more ambitious families bold. After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. The Miss Rosens sit alongside Miss Novak at supper during the ball at Manydown. Sir Carver seeks out Lord Novak to entreat him to join his London club. Mrs. Barnes pushes all five of her daughters at His Lordship in turn and hazards to offer her own self as well! All fail to ingratiate themselves with the young baron.

Insofar as a handsome, titled, single man of good fortune can be considered the rightful property of anyone, he may not always be in want of a wife. Lord Novak’s neighbours, little troubling to know his feelings or views on anything more substantial than his interest in a ball, could scarcely be expected to countenance the unpleasant truth that such a man could be in want of a Dean Winchester!

I must leave off for now, my dearest. I shall have more for you when next I write!

Adeiu  
Your Jane

 

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10455/10455_300.jpg)

 

Wednesday 27 January 1796

Dearest Alethea, I find my thoughts turning again and again to dear Mr Winchester and his freind the Baron. I do beleive that they are well advanced in their intimacy by now. And he has been in Milton for some months now. Perhaps it would be quite shocking if he did not hold a ball sooner rather than later?

Sam Winchester, second son of the late John Winchester, returns to Chevrolet on a Tuesday, what better day for a ball? The neighbourhood has at last prevailed upon the Novaks to host a dance and all is as it should be for the younger brother’s arrival. Josephine has spent the last of her allowance (and a bit more, thanks to the indulgence of an eldest brother who is anxious that the whole family should look just so for the occasion) on a suitable new gown and fresh trimmings for her newest bonnet. Sam, ever content in modest dress, must be wrestled into more foppish finery, lest he bring discredit and shame on the name Winchester (so says Dean).

Arrayed in new and borrowed fashions, the Winchesters arrive before any other guests and immediately make themselves very much at home. Much to Sam’s surprise, and with no small measure of mortification, it seems that his brother and sister assume an equal share in the hosting of the party as the Novaks. Indeed, there is Josephine taking tasks that should belong to Miss Novak; there is Dean greeting guests at Lord Novak’s side. True, the ball is, nominally, in celebration of the younger Winchester’s visit home, but he feels his brother takes too many liberties, intrudes on the kindness of the lord of Garrison House.

Yet when he can at last speak with his brother in private and attempt to reason with him, with all the force and compunction of his training in classical rhetoric, he fails to make Dean understand. Dean wilfully insists that his presence is a comfort to the host, that Lord Novak simply cannot do without him. “Sammy, you mean well, I’m sure, but this does not concern you. Yes, certainly he would find your helping him to be an intrusion, but I assure you that he- that is to say that I-” Dean laughs, because what words could ever convey to a brother the sentiment which he feels for Lord Novak? “He has made his home mine, and mine his. We are quite inseparable freinds, and I beg you will not pursue the matter further.”

Nor will his sister see reason. “Brother Sam, pray do not make yourself uneasy. I am Miss Novak’s particular freind and she has made it perfectly clear that I am to assist in the ball as if I were her own sister.”

“Ah but you have your own sister, whom you will see but rarely and at whose balls you would be loath to sit at tea, let alone serve.”

“Alexandra means very well, as do you. She is- she does not understand.”

“Understand what, pray?”

Jo does not scruple to say the first thing that enters her mind. “She is made to be a wife, Sam,” says she, “a dull creature, a colourless weed. There are thousands of ladies like her, content to wed and breed and never enjoy a laugh for anything, and to raise their daughters to the same cheerless fate. I am not that sort of woman, Sam. And Miss Novak less so. She is more akin to a hothouse flower, unique and interesting, and though lively, she is delicate. Not physically, perhaps; her heart is easily bruised. I protect her, and in return she offers me the novelty of her company. And our freindship is as good as a marriage, Sam.”

Their meaning, though clear to you and me, quite escapes the poor dear. Frustrated at every turn, Sam leaves his sister and brother to their bewildering folly. If they will expose themselves to ridicule, he determines that it need not be to his detriment as well.

He finds here a number of pretty partners. Some, you will note, accept his offer to dance because he is new and handsome and so very tall, and at least one young lady has harboured secret hopes that another Winchester would ask her to dance and finds his brother an acceptable substitute. A few are advised by sturdy mothers and cautious chaperones that they may only say yes to a Winchester to prevent the necessity of sitting out the rest of the evening; who knows when Lord Novak may decide to take a turn at last, and hadn’t it better be with the young lady in question?

Lord Novak does make his way to the dance floor as the evening comes to a close. Only a handful of dances remain before he addresses his first partner, Miss Winchester. She has danced only when Miss Novak attained a partner first, and then they have stood up side by side. It is clear that, though she acquits herself with grace and poise on the dance floor, Miss Novak does not dance for her own pleasure. Miss Winchester has a great deal more natural vivacity and zeal for the activity. When dancing with Lord Novak, however, she displays a good deal more calm, restraining her exuberance to match his more stately pace. The same can be said for her eldest brother, generally excitable but only too eager to slow his steps for Miss Novak, always his favourite lady at a ball.

I must tell you, ’Thea, that by the end of the night, many of the guests are quite in their cups, and only a very watchful eye like yours or mine would notice this: the two families have quite switched partners. They dance still as two couples, but it looks for all the world as if Lord Novak dances not with Miss Winchester, but with the brother!

As for the rest of the listless and nodding bystanders, there are couples enough to watch if one has the inclination, that the phenomenon goes undiscovered by even the shrewdest amongst their company. Not even Mr Sam Winchester, content to dance a third two with Miss Morningstar, can spare a glance to his brother when such beauty as hers bewitches him, body and soul.

Adeiu  
Your Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/11026/11026_300.jpg)

 

 

Saturday February 6 1796

Dearest Alethea, it has come to my attention that the story of Mr Winchester and Lord Novak is far from finished. However, it appears that there is other business in the neighbourhood of Milton which must draw our attention:

On the third morning after the ball, as Miss Morningstar is again announced as a visitor to Chevrolet, Dean begins to wonder if perhaps his brother is not seeing too much of Ruby. After the visit, he invites his brother and sister to walk with him to Garrison House, knowing full well that Sam will have no interest in attending, and knowing also that his sister will not be detained for an instant from such a request. Miss Novak, you must understand, is a shameless collector of gossip, or perhaps she is merely a collector of shameless gossip. On the morrow following any ball, the lady of Garrison House, though not an active participant in the talk, is sure to know all of the most scandalous, the most salacious gossip between Hampshire and London. Jo quickly discovered this talent in Miss Novak and took to calling on her at every opportunity (and there were many, for their brothers were nearly inseparable). Not a fortnight after their first ball, Miss Novak had developed a decided fondness for the wild little Winchester sister and found in her a willing audience. Jo found in Anna a steadfast friend, and a pleasing one at that. They both soon found their own happiness quite intertwined.

As they walk the barely three miles to Garrison House, Dean asks Jo what she knows of their brother’s attachment to Miss Morningstar.

“I do not think it too serious yet, brother, but I beleive that he, at least, is in a fair way of becoming very much in love with her.”

“But why should she be the one to catch him?” Dean wonders. “Surely there are prettier girls, young ladies who are less cruel, with nobler intentions-”

“I do wish that he could see that, Dean, and you can guess why.”

“Yes. I have not forgotten the shameful way they treated you, she and Miss Masters. With Mother dead and our sister eloped, you were left to the mercy of two older brothers. Please beleive that we did our best to raise you as a proper young lady, but without a governess-”

“No one can blame you, nor Sam. Nor indeed that I have been out these two years with no proper ball; there can be no excuse for their behaviour, Dean. And I beg you to consider that I am a very different girl than the one who left for Bath last season.”

“Agreed: you are much improved in taste and accomplishments, dear sister,” he replies with a smile and a gallant kiss upon the back of her hand. “I never can forgive them, though, and it hurts that Sam could. The lies they told, imputing all manner of scandal to your honour-”

“Meg sent her hounds to attack me,” Jo interrupts, speaking softly. She sets her hand over the place on her abdomen and runs a soft fingertip across a thick and ugly pink scar on her wrist.

“Yes, I had forgotten that,” Dean replies, chastened. “Perhaps he has, as well. I shall speak to him.”

Remembering something that Miss Novak had relayed to her prior to the ball, Jo brightens. “Assuming that he does not come to an understanding with her beforehand, we may soon have nothing to fear; Miss Morningstar has been summoned home! Her father has deemed her stay at L’Enfer to be quite long enough, and he wishes her to return to La Cage.”

“That is good news, little sister!”

They share few words during the remainder of their walk. Upon reaching Garrison House, Miss Winchester is immediately shewn to the morning sitting room, while Mr Winchester makes his way to the library unescorted. He finds his freind there, as expected, deep in a heavy tome on some such unfathomable topic, and they greet one another with firm, two-handed handshakes. Slow and steady and sure. Their eyes never parting.

“Dean,” Lord Novak says in his deep voice, like the very music of the spheres.

“Good to see you, Cas,” the other replies with a wide smile.

Their hands unjoin and they embrace tightly, as if they have not seen one another for months rather than only at dinner the night before.

They have just sat down upon the settee to discuss the happy conclusion to the problem of Miss Morningstar, when they are called to attend the ladies in the sitting room. They arrive to find Jo in a state of agitation. She is pacing the room and rushes to her brother’s side the moment he appears. “We were wrong. She does leave soon for La Cage, but her father has invited half the neighbourhood, certainly all the young people, for a visit.”

“Not all,” adds Anna. “All of the young people, save only us four.”

“And Sam has been invited most particularly.”

“It seems that Mr Morningstar wishes to advise your brother regarding their mutual profession.”

“All of this means that Sam will be of the party, and we cannot prevent her noxious influence,” adds Jo emphatically.

“Nor his.” Castiel looks concerned.

“We cannot hope to win him from such an invitation,” Dean says.

Castiel nods, “Perhaps you are correct. Or perhaps,” he muses, his eyes flashing back and forth as he deliberates, “I can appeal to Mr Morningstar.”

Dean looks his astonishment. “You cannot hope to reason with Lucifer Morningstar!”

“Reason with? No. But I may be able to tempt him.”

Dean laughs. “How?”

“The gardener informs me that the oranges are nearly ripe. Just another day or so and we will see the orangerie at its fullest flush. If we can persuade him to come here, he will not look so favorably upon returning with a caravan. He will take his daughter home with him directly. And it will not look well to bring the- to bring his daughter’s- to bring Sam back to La Cage.”

“That’s a fine thought, brother (interjects Anna) but you will have half the neighbourhood clamouring for your head if you deprive them of the sumptuous temptations of La Cage.”

“Then we shall provide finer. Dean, you know my property better than I: how is Vessel Hill at this time of year?”

“None more satisfying,” Dean replies with a grin. “Not far from the orangerie, within a reasonable distance of the house for the convenience of making a picnic, good deeply shaded walks to keep the young ladies cool and cheerful. There may even be fruit in the old strawberry beds. And- more to see,” he concludes clumsily but with an arch look.

“Very good,” Castiel pronounces. “Anna, when is the visit to La Cage to occur?”

“Within a fortnight; the second morning after the next rain, so as to promise clear roads.”

“It looks like rain today,” Dean remarks.

“It does,” echoes Castiel. “I wonder you came on foot.”

“Yes. How very strange.” Jo smiles at the look the two men exchange. She is not deluded by her brother’s formal manners, not in the least, and she sometimes wishes that circumstances were different; were Castiel a woman, her brother would be a married and settled man with babies on the way, be they ever so poor.

“I shall send a message to Mr Morningstar before the evening meal. For now, though, perhaps I shall see you back to your door in the carriage.”

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10923/10923_300.jpg)

 

 

Friday 12 February 1796

Dearest Alethea, I do not write this as a Valentine, and perhaps that is for the best, as it will be a Sunday this year. I can well imagine you sitting in the church with this note concealed in your prayer book. Shameful creature! They will say that you are becoming like that wicked Jane, and then they will keep us apart. It will not do!

You asked if Lord Novak was successful in preventing the excursion to La Cage. It will please you to know that the answer is, “Yes!” Lucifer Morningstar, esq., is only too delighted to visit His Lordship’s orangerie, and he sends very charming regrets to all of the families of the neighbourhood. As the invitations from Lord Novak arrive in the same instant, all is readily forgiven by all but Miss Morningstar herself. Her young man does not pine for the loss, and indeed Miss Masters is very happy to convert a scheme for her freind’s happiness into one for her own. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The grounds of Garrison House are extensive, more so than Manydown and several of her neighbours gathered together. The property attached to the house is similar in scope to the grounds of my brother in Kent, though Garrison House has benefited from a great deal of modernization in the previous generation. The Winchesters, having been quite close with the former occupants, know the duck pond and the trout stream and the labyrinth better than anyone. They know which copse of trees harbours the best quail and which the plumper wild berries. They have spent many a leisurely hour amongst the rose gardens, many a boisterous afternoon riding their horses up and down the otherwise quiet carriage paths.

The party is to spend the whole of the morning gathering fruit and exploring the grounds at their leisure, before making their way up Vessel Hill for a picnic at the usual hour. The guests converge on the glass building, but the young people are in high animal spirits and do not linger long. Within the hour, only the parents and a few negligent chaperones remain in the orangerie, in company with their hostess. Miss Chambers, Miss Talbot, and Miss Robinson are among the first to slip away, holding hands and laughing about some secret that could only be shared along a solitary walk to the west of the main house. I think you and I, my dearest ’Thea, might guess the girls’ secret, how their loving hearts flutter scandalously fast in their chests with forbidden feelings for one another, but their governesses never would. Sam Winchester and Ruby Morningstar make their escape next, and when Miss Novak promises her brother to fulfill the duties owed their guests, Dean Winchester does not even remember to ascertain his brother’s whereabouts before urging Lord Novak to accompany him to the labyrinth.

The labyrinth! Here is the crowning jewel not just of Garrison House but of the entire neighbourhood. There are few in all of Hampshire to compare. The shrubbery stands more than six feet tall, closer to seven, and the living walls loom large over those who brave the labyrinth’s interior, dark under fragrant arbors. A rectangular column of marble, about the same height as the hedges, stands at every turning and at irregular intervals in between, so as to keep the traveller disoriented. True, it is nothing to the marvels to be encountered in London, but Castiel readily admits that it is far finer than anything he has on his property in Derbyshire. Dean doubts that it is so.

“Tell me about Elysium,” he begs, as they stride along. He wants a distraction from the colour rising in Castiel’s pretty face.

“It is a beautiful place, Dean. Peaceful. Not like here. This place is so noisy, bustling; I can scarcely hear myself think.”

“Do you mean the neighbourhood generally or Chevrolet specifically?” Dean teases. His home is neither beautiful nor peaceful, and though it costs him some consternation on the Novak’s behalf, he knows also that both Castiel and Anna find a strange sort of comfort there. Castiel may arrive in the highest agitation and yet at the end of a quarter hour’s visit to Dean’s home, His Lordship smiles easily, and sometimes he laughs.

He laughs now, a soft chuckle he seems to reserve only for Dean. “Both,” replies the baron with a gentle smile. More soberly, he reflects on the home he has left. “I wish you could see it, Dean. Marble and gilt, white and gleaming, everything old and familiar, yet it is all fresh like new. And the hills and valleys- Vessel Hill notwithstanding, this land is so flat.”

“That is true, Cas. Yet it is all I know.”

“Someday, you-”

“Someday, I-?”

He declines to continue. “It is not of import.”

Dean stops Castiel with a hand to his forearm and turns him until they are face to face.

“What do you not wish to say?” Dean asks softly.

But Castiel shakes his head and cannot answer. “I dare not ask. Not now.” He looks down at the ground; when he raises his head, he shakes it once more and turns to resume their walk.

They say nothing more until they enter the labyrinth’s deep shadow.

“You’re not intimidated, are you, Cas?” Dean asks with a bold teasing eye.

“Not at all, Dean,” he replies with confidence. “You told me that you know all of its secrets. I trust you.”

Dean looks like he might make a clever remark, but he snaps his jaw shut and smiles. “You should take my arm then, Your Lordship.”

Lord Novak should hesitate, but he does not. He slips his hand around his freind’s upper arm with nary a thought, as easily as a lady with her favourite gentleman. If he notices that Mr Winchester stands a bit taller, that he straightens his shoulders somewhat at the attention, Castiel says nothing.

 

 

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10151/10151_300.jpg)

Dean leads them along the path, though not down the most direct route to the center. He is content to stroll quietly with Castiel calm at his side. Dean breathes in the many scents of the dark-walled garden, smelling verbena and cedar. He imagines perhaps the English roses that he knows await them within. He can hear nothing but the chatter of the birds and the wind in the leaves and the crunch of their own footfalls upon the path. And yet he almost does not hear the approach of several young people of their party as they crash noisily under the arbor at the entrance of the maze. He does not notice the nearness of their laughter until Castiel whispers, “Someone is coming.” One hand to the shrubbery, he quickly finds a hidden turning and pushes Dean around the corner. He holds Dean against a column and presses close against him, a hand over his mouth. They stand quite still as the small, scattered party enter the labyrinth, remark loudly on the gloom within, and hastily retreat. Dean recognises them as Miss Charlotte Bradbury, Mr Tran, Mr Fitzgerald, and Miss Jones, in company with her guardian, Mrs. Mills.

The sound has died away and still Castiel holds tight to Dean. The latter nods once, and Castiel removes his hand, yet he does not free Dean from his embrace. “Forgive me.”

“Cas?” Dean looks from Castiel’s wide blue eyes to his lips, pale and full (much like yours, my dear), and he wets his own, well-shaped like the cupid’s bow, and quite pink, as you have happily observed. Castiel raises his hand again to Dean’s face, but now he holds his cheek, cupping it as tenderly as a lover. He can have only one meaning; he brings his lips to Dean’s. Castiel kisses Dean, a gentle first kiss, unburdened with declarations of love, true and otherwise. He merely kisses him, and yet the eloquence of it answers every thought yet unsaid.

Who can say what finally prompts them to break off, to part so unwillingly, but at length they do. With soft laughs and shy eyes, they resume their old attitude, Cas clinging to Dean with a quiet easy grace.

“That was quite clever,” Dean acknowledges, “discovering that alcove.”

Cas smiles. “It wasn’t difficult. I could sense the air as it-”

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Hush.”

A glance at Dean’s open and cheerful countenance assures Castiel that his freind speaks in jest. “Apologies.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling. He claims Castiel’s other hand and places a soft kiss upon the back of it. “May I shew you the roses?” he asks, his smirk unmistakable.

“Yes, Dean. Lead on.”

Dean quickens his pace and takes all the correct turnings, and in less than two minutes, they find themselves at the center of the labyrinth. The air is less close here, open to the sun, now approaching its zenith. Dean leads Castiel to inspect the roses, then invites him to seat himself at the bench. “May I?” he asks, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Please.”

Dean covers Castiel’s lips with his. He finds that he is still too far from Castiel, and he presses closer. Closer still. “Castiel, I want-”

“What do you want, Dean?”

“More, Cas.”

“Take it. Take what you wish, Dean.”

Dean pulls Castiel to standing. He presses his chest flush against Castiel’s and kisses him again. His hands drop to Castiel’s waist, and the baron gasps. He says only, “Dean,” just once, as nimble fingers find their object. Dean does not scruple, does not hesitate; having decided that he will make this man his lover, he is relentless in his determination to give Castiel every pleasure he can afford him, in this stolen moment. He touches him, caresses, firm and eager, takes him in hand; kneels at his feet to kiss him and to please him. He looks up once to observe Castiel gazing down upon Dean with such expression in his eyes, lust and something more, want and need and a craving that Castiel could hardly hope to sate with such a man as Dean Winchester.

In silence, or nearly so, they find their joy amongst the roses at the heart of the labyrinth. In silence, they collapse upon the bench to gather breath. They are all smiles and gentle mirth, sweetly tired and slowly collecting themselves. Time is short; they must rejoin the party. But they spare one another a few precious minutes to breathe the other’s air, to kiss, and to whisper in small voices.

As they stand and prepare to depart the maze, Castiel catches Dean about the waist before pressing a tender kiss to Dean’s lips, now rather red than pink. “Thank you. My soul.”

Dean says nothing that cannot be said with smiling green eyes and a kiss as deep as the blush staining his freckled cheeks.

Miss Morningstar encounters Lord Novak and Mr Winchester as they exit the labyrinth, clearly deep in conference.

“Your Lordship, there has been an accident!”

As Dean can only assume his brother to be of her party, his mind leaps to fear the worst. “Sam!”

Miss Morningstar turns to Lord Novak’s companion with some alarm, before a shrewd glint in her eye darkens her whole demeanor. “No, Sam (I should say, your brother) is well.”

“Then why can he not-?”

“He’s gone to see my father- on some business,” she demures. “It is Miss Masters, she has fallen from her horse! I beg you will go to her!”

Lord Novak does not hesitate. “Take me to her at once.”

Dean does not follow, but makes his way back to the house to alert the staff. Just as His Lordship’s men rush outside, however, Castiel can be seen striding across the long lawn, the maid in his arms collapsed against his shoulder. She looks quite unwell indeed. That is, until she catches the eye of Mr Winchester. Her coy smile informs him of her intentions. He scowls, even as he leads the way to a convenient sitting room.

Lord Novak sets his charge gently on the sofa and urges all extraneous hands from the room. “I examined her briefly in the field, and I beleive it to be little more than a sprained ankle,” he tells the man to his left, before calling on Mr Winchester to inform the stables that Miss Masters’ horse has gone missing. “Then inform my sister to start the afternoon meal without us.”

“But I can-”

“Please, Mr Winchester.” He says no more, dismissing the younger man with a stern glance and returning his attention to the lady.

Dean tells Anna of the accident, then departs again to assist in locating the mare. He returns in time for a taste of something sweet, and who should be sitting beside Lord Novak but Miss Masters, all enthusiasm and graceless charm. She tells everyone who will listen how very gallantly Lord Novak came to her aid, carried her across miles and miles, tended to her so gently. She flaunts the wounded ankle as a proof of attachment, as a lover’s token.

His Lordship, for his part, does little to disabuse her audience. He is all smiles as well, though softer, yes; softer than the smiles he bestowed on Dean only this morning in the labyrinth, but smiles nonetheless.

Can they have reached an understanding in so short a time? She is rich; not so rich as Lord Novak, but a fortune of almost twenty thousand pounds will never be called insignificant. And she is a woman. A wife and children must be the expectation of every man, is it not so?

Dean knows that his position is- No, he has no position at all. His is a dalliance, an indiscretion to be one day writ off as youthful. He dare not take umbrage. He dare not mention it. The shame pinks his cheeks and allows him a small respite from the mortification of being so soon replaced. Accidentally catching Lord Novak’s eye, he turns to his sister and asks her to collect Sam, as they must away.

As he moves to leave, he finds his way blocked by Castiel. Dean looks to where he last saw the baron and marvels at his celerity.

“You will not leave so soon, Mr Winchester.”

“I’m afraid I must, Your Lordship,” Dean replies stiffly. ”My company is not wanted.”

Lord Novak draws his freind away from the nearest pair of gossiping ears and in a low voice asks, “But surely after- what happened earlier-”

Dean raises his chin as firmly as he dares. ”It meant nothing.”

Cas looks his confusion. ”Dean, I don’t understand-”

“You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time on me.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, and so misses how Castiel lifts his own proud head, squares his shoulders, and sets his jaw with a clench of teeth.

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/11026/11026_300.jpg)

 

 

Monday ~~1 March~~ 29 February 1796

Dearest Alethea, you beg that I reunite our fine heroes. I assure you that I know how it will be, but I fear you will not like where the story goes next.

You know, of course, that the Winchesters left the party quite abruptly. You know Mr Winchester’s feelings upon quitting the Vessel Hill picnic, but I have barely spoke of the sister and the brother. You do not know how Jo, safely ensconced in the carriage, immediately weeps her apologies to her brothers.

“I should not have spoken so, I know, but how could I not speak when Miss Jones-”

“Hush, Jo,” Dean begins, his words terse. But he is swiftly interrupted by Sam.

“Why do you cry, Josephine?” He looks to Dean. “Is this not about Ruby?”

Dean holds up one finger in warning. “That will be addressed soon enough. First, Jo, (placing brotherly hands on her thin shoulders), why do you cry?”

“I thought- I thought we left because- My behaviour- I acted abominably!”

“Abominably!” Sam exclaims.

“Hush, Sam. What do you mean, sister?”

She looks through her tears at her two brothers and sees only concern in their countenances, not anger nor mortification, as she had feared. “I mean,” she hesitates, “I made a scene at Lord Novak’s party, and I thought you must agree that my behaviour was intolerable. You came immediately afterward and scowled so.”

“Josephine, pray, tell us what happened,” Sam asks.

“Only this: Miss Jones said something ... untoward in reference to Anna, and I attacked her.”

Dean and Sam share a glance. “Attacked her, how, Jo?” Dean asks.

“Oh! With words only, I promise!”

Both brothers breathe easier.

“You have grown since I left,” Sam remarks, releif evident in his tone.

“Start at the beginning, Jo,” says Dean.

“Let me see. It was after Miss Masters came back with Castiel, with Lord Novak. Anna and I, we spoke in a whisper, surely no one could have heard us. The way Miss Masters was leaning on his arm and smiling, Anna did not like it. Anna felt her mere presence at his side to be a, I beleive the word she used was ‘betrayal.’”

“Betrayal!” Dean exclaims, then falls silent. His reticence only grows as his sister’s story continues.

“Betrayal,” Jo repeats. “She would not explain further, though she did attempt to engage her brother in conversation with the rest of the party. ‘Brother,’ said she, ‘you have been absent from our circle for much of the morning; perhaps you would be so good as to join Miss Wesson. She has had a letter from her niece, and I’m sure she would not object to sharing Miss Madison’s news just one more time!’ As if Miss Wesson _could_ be confined to one repetition only!”

“Josephine!” Sam is shocked by his sister’s poor manners, though not as shocked as he should be, had she been raised by a better model than Dean Winchester.

Jo has the good grace to look chastened before continuing. “Anna only encouraged her brother to speak to the least of us, and her reward was to garner ridicule from Miss Jones.”

“I’m sure you must be mistaken. Mrs Mills would never allow her charge to cast aspersions on her hostess!”

Jo fixes her next older brother with an angry stare. “I am most certainly not mistaken, Samuel Winchester, and you would know that, had you been there to witness! Just where were you, dear brother?”

“Jo.” Dean says no more.

She sits taller, primly remarking, “Miss Jones did, as I say, speak ill of her hostess, though Mrs Mills certainly was furious at her manners.” She pauses for a long sigh. “She, Miss Jones, I mean, spoke inconveniently loud to Miss Talbot of her beleif that Miss Novak did not wish anyone to marry her brother. Miss Talbot, to her credit, did not join in, but I shall be forever cross with her for not silencing her then. Finding what she thought to be an eager audience, she did not stop, but proceeded to abuse a woman, any woman, who did not cherish the idea of marriage, of any mere woman who would dare stand in the way of another’s marrying well.”

“Dear me, this is not to be borne,” Sam says in a low voice.

“Indeed so, brother. And worse said she of finding a lady of fortune who did not think to share her wealth with some less well-off member of the stronger sex! As if marriage be the duty of a woman of means, as if the woman exists only to enrich a man!” Jo’s frame actually shakes with rage at the slights heaped upon her freind.

“Jo, pray compose yourself; we have arrived.”

She wipes at her eyes with her little lace handkerchief. “I am quite well,” says she, just as the coachman opens the door.

Dean breaks his silence only to usher his brother and sister into the west-facing sitting room, that they will be undisturbed for as long as possible, while the sunlight lasts.

“Continue,” he says.

“To be quite honest, brother, I hardly know what I said. I know that I used many angry words, that I did not speak as I ought to a guest of my dearest freind, to a young woman raised as she was, in such feral and uncivilized conditions. She does not always know her own mind, and I owed her a greater measure of mercy and compassion. And yet, to hear such words spoken ...” Jo allows her head to fall into her hands to hide her tears.

Dean moves nearer to comfort his sister. “You know your faults; I shall not compound them with useless scolding.”

“Thank you, Dean,” she says, looking up at him with gratitude.

He glances now to Sam. Though his eyes are like fire, his voice is made of ice: “Where were you, brother?”

Sam shifts. “I was otherwise engaged. That is-” He gathers the courage to explain to his brother, the head of his family and the only man with any real authority to tell him what he will or will not do: “Dean, I have asked for Miss Morningstar’s hand, and she and her father have given it.”

“Have you? And when did you think you would speak to me about it?”

Sam laughs, somewhat nervously. “I am speaking to you now.”

“You beg my forgiveness rather than my permission. Why?”

“You would never have given your blessing!”

“And why do you think I shall bestow it now?” Dean roars, suddenly furious.

“I do not want it, Dean! I do not care if you withhold your blessing from me! I have nearly completed my schooling, and Mr Morningstar is prepared to assist me in my career. He has just written about a place for me at Gray’s Inn, and my path is secure.” As Dean says nothing further in rebuttal, Sam adds softly, “Dean. Pray do not attempt to control my choices as Father did. He succeeded only in estranging himself from me.”

Dean turns his face towards Josephine, laying his forehead upon her shoulder.

“Perhaps you should go, Sam,” Jo says, an uncharacteristic calm over her features and in her tone. “I shall speak to him further on the matter when he is quite equal to it.”

Sam rises and departs without another word on the subject.

When he is gone, Jo with all gentleness asks, “Shall I send for Castiel?”

“No!”

“No? Will he not bring you peace in this-”

“No,” he says, lifting his head. “No, he will not. His name is not to be spoken here, so long as he- No.” Dean pushes himself from the sofa and stands somewhat shakily.

“Brother? You are not well!”

“I am perfectly well. But I think we shall leave Chevrolet for a time and visit aunt Harville and our sister Alex in London. It has been some time since we saw the children.”

Hesitantly, Jo replies that it is a good plan. “When shall we leave then?”

“As soon as it may be contrived. Tomorrow, if possible.”

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10455/10455_300.jpg)

 

Friday 4 March 1796

Dearest Alethea, after your complaints during my last holiday from writing you these little stories, I hope you will find this interval to be more to your liking!

Ah, London, Miss Alethea, it is to London that Mr Winchester directs his steps after the disaster at Garrison House. London! Such a scene of dissipation and vice! I have been wild to tell you all about the pleasure to be found in town, even in a place as dull and dreary as Cheapside. It does not glitter like the palaces, nor does it glow with greenery and life like the parks of the Serpentine, and yet it is London and therefore it is enough.

Jo finds pleasure enough to satisfy, though she longs for her home and her freinds. She had not anticipated that she would so keenly feel the loss of Miss Novak, as she does also her older freinds, especially Bela and Charlie. Her aunt and her sister and brother Winters are but poor comfort to such as these.

More than she yearns for her favourites, however, she wishes her brother would recover his usual _joie de vivre,_ as my cousin Eliza would say. He is weary at all hours of the day, he does not eat with the same zeal, he walks and talks with a listlessness that alarms his young sister. Nor will he burden her with any history of the Vessel Hill excursion that will illuminate for her his current low spirits.

Upon her next letter to Miss Novak, Jo spills her concerns for him. Has Anna heard anything by way of explanation for the sudden departure of the Winchesters?

Alas, the answer comes, there is nothing but silence from her brother as well. Silence, and a great well of sadness. Failing any proper means of assisting, the ladies devise a plan by which Anna will bring Castiel to London.

Before the scheme can be enacted, however, Dean falls quite ill of fever. Awaiting a visit from Mr Smith, the apothecary, Jo writes Anna a few lines and urges her to inform her brother at once. If ever there was a reason for a Novak of Elysium to enter a house in Cheapside, a febrile Dean will certainly convince Castiel of the necessity.

From Saturday to Tuesday, Jo is in constant hope that every turn of the doorknob will usher in her dearest Anna and her noble brother, though she has had no note, not a word of acknowledgement. She is not the most capable of nurses, lacking the patience and discipline for long hours in a sickroom. What she lacks in temperament, she more than supplies in care. She is sensible of her patient’s needs, bringing fresh water and cool sponges for his forehead and covering him in thick blankets when he shivers. She speaks gentle words when he thrashes and holds his hand when he falls again into peaceful slumber. The other women leave her to it, aunt Harville interceding only once or twice with some piece of advice for Dean’s immediate comfort.

As fate (or an all-powerful narrator) would have it, Jo is alone in the small parlor when the Novaks are announced.

“Anna!” The two women embrace in sympathy.

“How is he?”

“He is- the apothecary is with him now.” Tears fill Jo’s eyes and she glances at Castiel. “I’m so sorry, I fear that I am to blame!”

“Nonsense! How could you be?” Castiel replies.

“I sent him on a commission to the milliner’s for a length of ribbon. I knew he was in low spirits, and I thought he would do well to escape aunt Harville’s watchful eye. It rained that day, harder even than it is now, but I never thought that he would walk there and back! He was wet through upon his return, and was abed before we were called to dinner. I have been with him almost constantly, and Mr Smith has been to see him every day. I do not think him much worse, but aunt Harville has her own fears. She does not think he improves as quickly as he ought, and I-”

She is interrupted by the entrance of Mr Smith. He is unalarmed by the appearance of the visitors, Miss Novak looking quite blowsy and Lord Novak rather pale. He proceeds to tell Miss Winchester that her brother is “much as he was; if he does not improve soon, I should rather expect a very sudden decline.”

The ladies gasp and cling to one another, and Lord Novak manfully asks if he is well enough for visitors.

“He was asleep when I left him. But if the ladies do not object,” he nods. “I shall return in the morning, but do alert me immediately if you should detect any change for the worse.”

As soon as he takes his leave, Jo seizes Castiel by the wrist and almost drags him to Dean’s chamber. “Dean?” she whispers upon entering. “I have brought you a visitor, dear brother.” She leaves Castiel with a sly smile and a wish that he will stay as long as he pleases. “If he is to awaken to any face in England, I had hoped it would be yours.”

“Thank you, Josephine.”

She smiles at the hard-won informality and closes the door softly on the two gentlemen.

***

“Dean? I am come.” He takes Dean’s hand in his and strokes his thumb across the smooth skin at his wrist. “Your Cas is at your side.”

***

He sits beside him all the night, nodding in the simple chair at the bedside. Once, Jo enters to fill the pitcher at the dressing table should Castiel have need of it, and once to fix the fire so that the maid will not disturb their tête-à-tête. The second time, she is not so shocked to discover the baron kneeling beside the bed and sound asleep, his head pillowed on his hand and Dean’s, clasped fast. She approaches only to lay a gentle hand upon her brother’s forehead. It is damp but quite cool.

She departs with joyful tears shining in her eyes.

At breakfast, she explains that the fever has broken and that she left him sleeping comfortably. Just as she excuses herself to check on the patient, Lord Novak enters the dining room, greeting his hosts and begging forgiveness for retiring before he could do so properly upon his arrival.

“Have you been to see Mr Winchester this morning?” she asks.

“I have, yes. I just looked in on my way to breakfast. He seemed quite well already. I trust he had a good night?”

“Indeed, he did. If you’ll excuse me.”

She regrets leaving the Novaks alone with her family, as would any young lady of her age (as would we, dear ’Thea, though we have between us the sweetest of sisters!) but she trusts to Anna’s superior manners and good breeding to lend an air of elegance to the breakfast table. Thoughts of her freind always bring this same adoring smile to her face. She composes herself and pushes open Dean’s door. “Brother, you’re well!”

“I am; come in, Jo.”

“Did you have a good morning?”

He endeavours to avert his eyes, but Jo doesn’t miss the pinkness that creeps across his freckled countenance and how his eyes shine. “Cas came to see me?”

Jo nods enthusiastically, her cheeks glowing. “Anna is here, too, of course, but- He came as soon as he heard.”

He tries to laugh at their folly. “People don’t die of trifling colds.”

“He wouldn’t risk it.” She hesitates. “Have you quite forgiven one another?”

Dean shakes his head weakly. “We barely exchanged a dozen words. For my part, I am very ready to hear what he would say about- But he didn’t like to trouble me until I have had some time to recover. Was it really so bad, Jo? Was I so very ill?”

“Indeed: even under Mr Smith’s care, you languished for four whole days, and the apothecary nearly despaired of you.”

Dean shakes his head again. “I remember nothing but feverish dreams. And then all of a sudden, through the strange visions, I heard Castiel’s voice. It was some time before I awoke, but when I did, the fever was gone and Cas was here. He was holding my hand, and my other hand sat tangled in his hair, as if unconsciously, I had- Jo, I wish I could describe for you what I felt.”

Jo looks like her heart could burst, and her delight is mirrored in Dean’s expression; his can barely be contained within his fragile vessel. “Dean, I wish, I wish that I could one day wish you joy.”

He smiles, a bit sadly now. “Yes. As do I. Life is cruel, is it not?”

She smiles too, shaking her head. “You are both of you gentlemen, and he has a fortune and-”

“Jo. I’m rather tired. Would you mind if I slept?”

“Not at all, love. Can I get you anything?”

“No, sister. Except-”

“Anything you wish.”

“Tell Castiel he can come anytime.”

The sweetness of her countenance glows just a bit brighter. “I will,” she whispers.

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

 

 

Tuesday 15 March 1796

My dearest Alethea, I did not leave you in suspense on Mr Winchester’s recovery from fever, but I have not yet told the whole tale. You see, in such a case as his, it is not unnatural to suffer from some weakness. Poor Mr Winchester was no exception. Though prior to his illness he was active and strong, a robust young man addicted to many physical pursuits (gentlemanly and otherwise), he had allowed his mind and body so to atrophy in his melancholy state that he was confined to bed for much of the following week. He has, however, fine freinds in the Novaks, who sit with him through many a tedious hour. Our Mr Winchester, you see, never was overly fond of peace and quiet. And though restless and wild to be doing _something_ rather than languishing in bed, his head is as yet too fragile for much noise and his body too fatigued for exertion.

While Miss Winchester and Miss Novak maintain a tête-à-tête in one corner of the room, Lord Novak reads tirelessly aloud to the patient, Jo having supplied him with Dean’s favourite novels from the circulating library. Dean flushes and hurls imprecations at Jo for her choice of _The Old English Baron,_ but as it strikes Castiel as rather less shocking to the sensibilities of the ladies than either _Otranto_ or _Udolpho_ (the ladies had, of course, devoured both novels, and so his gallantry is quite lost on them), he reads Miss Reeve’s first. Jo can only laugh.

On Wednesday se’ennight, Dean ventures as far as the sitting room, where he is received with many kind sentiments by his aunt. She is all polite attention, as is his sister-hostess, who endeavours nobly to keep her rambunctious boys from running roughshod over poor “unca Dean” (his brother-in-law remains quite cool towards the invalid and quite unwilling to assist his wife in her impossible chore, and therefore shall receive no further mention from _me_ ). Mrs. Winters, however, begins to make remarks regarding the propriety of Miss Novak remaining much longer in the same lodgings as Mr Winchester, now that he is quite recovered. Jo deftly turns the subject, but the Novaks, acutely aware of the true question behind the question, of the shrewd suspicion of an impending union between the two families, quietly make their arrangements to return to Elysium.

Both Dean and Jo express their dismay at the news. The Winchesters had rather hoped to travel in company with the Novaks back to Hampshire, but as Anna’s most recent letter from Miss Charlotte Bradbury makes quite clear, the neighbourhood is not disposed to look favourably upon the match they now perceive to be truly at the heart of the intimacy between Chevrolet and Garrison House. Miss Charlotte informs her that the owner of Garrison House intends to rescind the gift of the manor as of Michaelmas and to retake residence as soon as Lord Novak’s twelvemonth has elapsed. As for the Winchesters, says she, all intercourse with _them_ will be considered quite at an end unless the head of the family consents to the marriage of his brother and Miss Morningstar.

As Anna had feared, the news proves too shocking for Dean, and he is returned to his bed until the morrow. He asks Castiel to stay near him, though his nerves are too rattled to admit of any farther speech on this subject, or any other.

When Dean awakens, it is to his sister’s sweet face, mouth twisted into an anxious scowl.

“Jo? What has happened? Where is Cas?”

“Lord Novak,” says she calmly, gesturing in the direction of their aunt, who busies herself over the grate, “and his sister have taken their leave. Yesterday.”

“Yesterday!”

She nods. ”Yes, while you slept. It is just dawning on Friday.”

He observes now that the light through the cracks of the heavy draperies shines now with morning sun, though it is not much stronger than the twilight which barely illumined the sky upon his retiring. He feels dazed by the news, but more alert than he has since before coming to London. He would leap from his bed and rush to search the town for the baron, but for his aunt Harville’s continued presence. Disinterestedly, he asks if Jo remembered him to the Novaks with his good wishes for a safe journey to Derbyshire.

“They are not yet bound for Derbyshire, but soon. He left this for you; I assume it to be some dull thing or other pertaining to the business of his quitting Garrison House.” She smiles, and Dean knows that she is privy to its contents, and they are no such thing.

“Very well, I shall attend to it after I have had my breakfast and we have determined when I am to be well enough to travel. Aunt Harville, I beleive I shall come down to breakfast this morning, if you do not think it unwise.”

She gladly proclaims his colour to be much improved and gives her recommendation that he should, though without any haste on his part. ”Shall I ask your brother Winters to attend you?”

“No, aunt, pray don’t,” Jo intercedes. ”I am a stout girl; I can manage him very well myself, as you saw Wednesday.”

She leaves them with soft deprecations of Jo’s willful nature and a fond smile.

“There,” Jo begins, as soon as the door is shut, “have I not delivered your letter in quite a pretty fashion?”

Dean laughs softly. ”You are quite the actress, dear sister. We should complete the family’s fall into ruin and send you to tread the boards.”

“No indeed, Dean; you are too shameful! Now, you sit quietly and read, and I shall fetch you in time for breakfast.”

“Thank you, Jo,” says he, catching her fair hand in his and bestowing a light kiss upon it. ”Run along now, girl. Big brother has tedious matters of business to transact.”

It is with a smile that he watches the door close behind her and he picks up the folded paper. He admires the elegant handwriting that spells out “Mr Winchester” and the handsome seal stamped in the wax, a left-facing E and a modified K. To Dean, the characters are as foreign as if they were the language of the Angels. He would have to remember to ask Castiel about their significance when next they met. He breaks the seal with some regret and opens the letter with none at all.

His smile swiftly fades. The note is short: “Dean, it pains me to leave your side so suddenly and knowing you to be again struck ill. Though I am beside myself with greif for your fragile state, I am afraid we must away at once. You will become acquainted with the situation soon enough, and I do not wish to recount it here. If this letter should reach you before Friday, I beg that you and Miss Winchester will contrive to dine with my sister and me at the Elk and Marmot, as we depart for Derbyshire immediately thereafter. Judging by your state at my leaving, I rather despair of your coming. I am half agony, half hope. I bid you will write to me when you are recovered, for I shall not enjoy another moment of comfort until I know that you are quite out of danger. Beleive me to be ever - Yours most sincerely, Cas. Novak”

He is out of bed before he can quite comprehend the whole. ”We must away; Friday we depart for Derbyshire.” He knows he is well as he races indecorously to find Jo and press the letter into her hands.

“They leave Friday. We must dine with them or there is no hope of seeing them and they-”

“Dean, calm yourself or you will find yourself back in bed!” She urges him to seat himself on the sofa before she will say another word further. ”There now. Dean. You are not yet well enough to-”

“I am, I assure you. I must go to him at once.”

“You can stay to breakfast first-”

“No.”

“He will not be prepared to see visitors.”

“He will see me.”

She nods once, curtly. ”Do you know why he has left so suddenly?”

He blinks before turning his face to his youngest sister. “No. He never said.”

Jo nods again, considering what she will say. “News has reached our sister of Sam’s proposed match. And something of a confirmation of the rumored match between you and-”

“Say no more of that.”

“-the Honourable Miss Novak.”

“Ah.”

“Two gentlemen came to speak with our brother-in-law. Agents of Lucifer Morningstar. From what Sister could glean, he means to erase your claim to the Winchester fortune, such as it is, and at Sam’s behest!”

“Lucifer Morningstar! That son of a-”

“Wait, Dean. I have written to Sam in the hopes that he will contradict all. You know our brother, and he would never- He would not leave us penniless and homeless, as well as freindless. It is a misunderstanding, that is all. As for the purpose of their visit, we are quite sure that they mean to expose the truth about your debts-

“I have no debts.”

“-and your indiscretions-”

“Or to fabricate them. To what end? To rob me of my birthright?”

Jo hesitates. “Is it not possible that the rumors will prove strong enough to frighten away … respectable families?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps Morningstar’s men know ... more than they say. Has Anna any news to add?”

Jo gives no answer there, and replies, “They dared not linger after being apprised of the visitors.” She pauses before adding, “We have neither of us been cautious in shewing affection. Perhaps Lord Novak and his sister see the peril in this and have left to rid themselves of our attaintment.”

“No, Jo, I-” He steels himself against the very idea. ”No, I will go to Cas now and I will hear from him his motives.”

Dean is soon dressed for walking out, and he directs his steps towards the inn. He knows the place, of course, a shoddy thing, not so well suited to the children of a baron. He wonders how they could choose such a situation, if only for a few days’ time. Certainly Anna has never been so incommoded in her life, though Cas has his brief captaincy to which to compare the meagre accommodations. He thinks he shall have a look at the dining room, that he can prepare his own sweet sister.

Dean has barely left his aunt’s street, has yet to join the flow of humanity that presses on all sides in that part of town, when he catches a most welcome sight: Cas’ greatcoat, so immediately recognizable even in the thickest of London crowds, is before his eyes! Lord Novak stands at a shoppe window, seeming to admire a display of lace gloves, but Dean knows better. He grins shyly at his freind’s back and sees the reflection of Castiel’s smile returned before the baron turns to face him.

“Hello Dean,” Cas breathes as he approaches. “You are yourself again!”

“Yes,” Dean stammers. “I’m- Cas, why are you here?”

“Can you not guess?”

Dean knows not where to look. “But you left.”

Castiel’s countenance falls, and his eyes slide downward. “The men who called at your aunt’s. I fear their intentions, or rather those of their master, in regards to Anna and her fortune. And you. I had to move my sister to a place of greater safety.”

“To the Elk? I can think of few places less secure.”

“You misunderstand me. If, as I beleive, they seek an heiress, they will not search there.”

Dean agrees.

“Will you walk with me, Dean? There’s something I would ask of you.”

“Anything.”

“But first, I must know: did you leave Hampshire because of Meg, because of Miss Masters?”

Dean stiffens. “I am sure no man with eyes to see could have misread your intentions to her.”

“I’m afraid you have, Dean,” says Castiel with a mournful inclination of his head. “I daresay you saw her smiles and my own and thought that I did so with the affection of a lover.” Dean says nothing farther, but his expression shews that Castiel strikes close to the truth. “I assure you it was no such thing. I thought only to attract attention away from your sister’s violent condemnation of my sister’s detractors.” They find themselves in a secluded street of mews, and Castiel takes Dean’s hand into his. “I have formed no attachment. I have loved none but you. You alone have brought me to London. For you alone, I think and plan.”

Dean can scarcely breathe. “I’ve been a blockhead,” he utters at length. “I didn’t dare to hope that you should, that you could-” He finds Castiel’s steady blue eyes and holds their gaze as he returns the sentiment: “That you would love me as I love you. I need you, Cas.”

Bolstered by his declaration, Castiel speaks again, and his words take a yet more serious shape. “Dean, would you do me the honour- I cannot ask for your hand, I cannot offer you a marriage, nothing more than the profoundest bond your word and mine can cement, but it would make me the very happiest of men! What I mean is, would you do me the very great honour of agreeing to live with me, to share your life with me, to be my husband?”

As Dean seals his mouth over Castiel’s, he almost forgets to answer. Between kisses and tears, he remembers at last to gasp, “Yes, Cas, yes, I am yours!”

“My Life! my Soul!”

“My Adorable Angel!”

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10536/10536_300.jpg)

 

 

Monday 4 April 1796

My dearest Alethea, I am afraid I have a most delicious idea for the lovers! Oh my sweet girl, what have I done? Perhaps it is too much, perhaps it ought not to be attempted. But my dear, I have been reading _novels._ Awful, salacious ones, dearest. I have several very scandalous ideas about Lord Novak and Mr Winchester.

I cannot say. I must tell you. Oh dear, suppose I should tell you, and you are ashamed to see my face again? Or suppose that I should tell you, and I am not there to watch as you worry your lip between your teeth as you read? I fear you will blush to the very tips of your ears, when you see!

I shall write it here, though perhaps it will never see the light of day. Perhaps you never will see it after all.

The Winchesters have only just come to live at Elysium. Dean is in a plush bedchamber, adjacent to Castiel’s but not connected as they often are in those stately homes. Dean can feel the heaviness of sleep weighing on his limbs and yet he cannot submit to it. Even as exhausted as he is after the day’s exertions, even with the weariness of travel and long confinement in the post-chaise, even with the joy of reunion with the longed-for Novaks, something gnaws at his mind. The house is too still, too quiet in the daylight; and now under cover of dark, strange creakings and moanings fill his ears. The ancient trees scrape their gnarled fingers across the mossy stones below his window, groaning against the chill of the north wind. But it is the feeling of a presence, not malevolent but omnipresent, which braces Dean’s eyes against sweet repose.

He wonders whether his sister sits awake, filled with dread, in her chambers near Miss Novak, in the newer South Wing of the old home.

The fire smolders redly in the grate, and Dean determines to draw the curtains around the bed. Perhaps a deeper dark will hasten his tired mind to its rest. To breathe, though, now, in this cloister, is to inhale the rich scents he suddenly associates with his freind; the crisp smokiness of warmed pressed linen, the mahogany he smells now from the headboard, lavender in the bedclothes. Sequestered in this cozy nest, he allows himself a measure of comfort, and perhaps a surer path to sleep. His strong hand elicits a low sound from his throat and he stifles the next into the pillow, thick and redolent with the smells he came to know in Lord Novak’s Hampshire seat. Even here, in the north, the same scent. His passion heightens, until a low dull thud of wood against stone startles him into stillness.

He feigns sleep, listening. He can hear the sounds of more fuel being added to the fire. Perhaps a maid- No, from the long stride and heavy footfalls, it must be a manservant in his chamber.

And yet why did he not come in by the door?

Dean holds his breath upon perceiving the rustle of the thick draperies hanging from the canopy. A faint crack of firelight falls upon his tight-shut eyes, and still he would appear to slumber. Whatever lurks in the room watches him sleep. At length, Dean can tolerate the intrusion no more. Be it human or supernatural, Dean must countenance the interloper. Jerking his head towards the gap in the curtain, he opens his eyes.

“Castiel!”

Lord Novak lets fall the brocade from his fingers and vanishes; indeed, by the time Dean can scramble across the mattress and leap through the curtain, he can find no trace of the baron, nor any indication that he had ever been there, save the roaring glow in the hearth.

He looks about himself, first to the door, from which the noise could not possibly have issued. As he glances at the latch, he spies a small movement out of the corner of his eye. Was it a trick of the light? No, an ancient tapestry depicting a young man and a unicorn wafts gently in an invisible draft! But below the tapestry, a thin sliver of light reveals to Dean the secret entrance by which the lord of the house has disappeared.

He pushes aside the heavy curtain and steps out into a narrow stone staircase, winding away down into darkness. No, not darkness, for just at the edge of sight comes a faint halo. Following downwards, he passes several empty sconces. The very last at the end holds a lit torch, illuminating … nothing! “It is a dead end,” he wonders. But it cannot be. Castiel cannot vanish into thin air, nor walk through a stone wall.

Extracting the torch from its resting place, he searches the wall for evidence that it is not so solid as it first appears to be, given only a cursory inspection. At last, he discovers a weak point and he shoves hard with his whole weight. It gives way and he is suddenly outside, with only a thin garment to protect him from the chill night wind.

Away across an expanse of grass, he recognises the soft swell of land denoting the cleverly disguised ha-ha and the secret garden he knows to hide beyond the masonry wall. And traversing this land, a dot of fire shews him the path his beloved treads through the fresh dew. Should he follow, Dean will be wet through. He should go back, attire himself properly for an expedition. Yet despite the cold and the damp, it is summer, and he will live. He finds his feet drawn inexorably forwards, onwards, towards his love.

He slips into the ha-ha, dropping gracefully over the wall, and crosses through the iron gate and into the garden. Past an orchard of sweet apples, past the wild apples on the periphery, he chases the light of Castiel’s torch. He nearly overtakes him before Castiel abruptly halts.

Dean follows his gaze forward and his eyes fall upon a Doric temple, all in marble, as proud (if not as immense) as the Temple of Artemis of old. In echo of that ancient wonder, it bears the inscription “The Sun never looked on aught so grand.”

Dean can only declare it awesome. Castiel takes his lover’s hand and draws him within to behold the statue of the Huntress there. “Why have you brought me here?” he asks in an awed whisper.

Cas does not speak. He beckons Dean closer, and Dean only observes that the baron is fully dressed as he proceeds to loose his cravat. He pauses just long enough to bare Dean’s muscular body to the night air, as hard and tight and glorious as a Greek god of old. He winds the cloth around Dean’s strong hands, binds them together, immobilises him against the statue, his back to that of the goddess.

Dean does not speak. He can only sigh and struggle for breath as Castiel takes his pleasure, kissing every inch of Dean’s taut skin until Dean thinks that he would collapse under his warm lips and hot tongue, but for the bonds that hold him upright between the cold marble and Castiel’s fiery flesh. Passion pulses within Dean’s skin, and the deep throb of pleasure and pain drives Dean to the very edge of the cliff. With a breathless kiss, Cas joins his hands with Dean’s and they tumble together into the abyss.

When Dean awakens, he has no very distinct memories of returning to this warm nest. Hidden behind the thick curtains, in his own bedchamber, smelling the heady mix of mahogany and lavender. He beleives at first that he dreamt it all.

Warm, strong arms grasp his waist and pull him close. “Sleep, Dean; I will watch over you.”

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10455/10455_300.jpg)

 

Monday 11 April 1796

My dearest Alethea, I am so very well pleased that my last left you in such a flutter. Indeed, dearest, you hardly wrote an intelligible word on the subject!

I understand that you have questions about Mr Winchester. Why ever did his former neighbours speak of him amongst themselves with such derision? Had he really been the ruination of even one young lady, it would be enough! And gambling and indebtedness, too? Indeed, it makes my poor head weak to think that such a beautiful face as his could conceal secrets of such shameful magnitude! Really, though, my dear, we should wonder that his is not a life of abject poverty and beggary, if the malicious tongues in the village wag with any truth at all.

Dean is not so much of a gambler and profligate scoundrel as he once was. The truth is, my dear, he is actually too good, to a fault. His generous nature and healthy ledger give him too much of confidence, and so he ends every month flirting with ruin and never quite succumbing. His limited funds always find a means of escaping, in the form of little presents to those he loves. Jo has always a new bonnet or a gown. Sam never wants for money, away at school. And Dean never scruples to send a guinea to Alex and the children, whenever he thinks his sister will accept it. But most of his monthly allowance he puts into the hands of a respectable woman who runs a small school in the south. This lucre pays to keep a young girl (can you guess?) in pin money and clean new gowns. His daughter.

Emma is a great secret, held tight in Dean’s miserly grip. Not even his beloved Jo knows about her, the result of a careless affair some fifteen years ago, when Miss Josephine Winchester was but a babe in arms. Dean had not yet come into his inheritance, and _she_ was a woman of low birth, the natural daughter of someone. They became acquainted during the summer the Winchesters spent in Lyme. The year his sister eloped. Had he stayed near Alex that night, as he had promised Father so faithfully to do, instead of allowing himself to be charmed away by a pretty face and eager hands, none of this would have happened! To this day, of course, he blames himself for everything: for Alex’s unhappy marriage, for Emma’s ignoble station (and her mother’s), for allowing the family to fall apart under such circumstances.

It was small comfort to Dean know that his saintly mother had not lived to see their disgrace, but their father could not see this thin sliver of luck. He could not bear the shame visited upon him by his eldest daughter, who should have been the very model of goodness and virtue! He never spoke another word to Mrs Winters, would not tolerate her presence, sent no congratulations upon the birth of her first child. As for Dean, who saw how the evil of his sister’s shame sat so coldly upon their father’s heart, he was careful to prevent his father ever knowing about Lydia, let alone the bastard, a girl child, beautiful and stout, so like Jo at the same age. And hadn’t Father always remarked on how like their mother was little Jo? (Not fondly, either; no, the comparison arose always from the pain it gave him to think of what he’d lost on her account.)

No, Dean went to great lengths to disguise his interest in the child, though he could not neglect her. The rumours of his gambling debts grew, and he was ever at his father’s door begging another advance of his allowance. Depending on his mood and the quality of the drink in his hand, his father would either berate him for his carelessness or else box his ears. Often much worse. Young as she was, Jo often found her poor brother afterwards, out of doors or hiding in the smoky kitchen, bloodied, filled with righteous anger, hot tears tracing lines over his sullied face. She learned to fetch a wet rag, mop his brow, lead him by the hand to his room. She never said a word. Never did she ask why. Perhaps, precocious child, she thought she knew; perhaps she did know. For all her pretense of empty-headedness, she always was clever, knew more than she ever allowed. Hers was a game of quiet acquiescence, of mild manners and cloying innocence throughout those few years remaining to her father. After all, she had begun to strike back with fists against the cruelty of those neighbourhood girls, and what he didn’t know of her rough attitudes and unladylike ways couldn’t hurt her.

Imagine, if you will, though, a very different scene: a sunny morning, in the smaller breakfast room at Elysium, the one the gentlemen prefer for dining _en famille._ The servants dismissed as always after the arrival of the post. Lord Novak breaks the seal on a sheet of sumptuous thick paper, a missive written in a lady’s elegant hand, and it is not until he begins to read that he observes at last, “This is not my letter.” He refolds the note in haste, thrusting it into his husband’s hands.

Dean, seeing the direction and recoiling, briefly, before replying with as calm an air as can be mustered: “How came it to be in your post, I wonder?”

“I know not, dear heart,” and Castiel disappears behind his newspaper while Dean makes himself master of the letter’s contents. Only when Dean rises and sets his feet to pacing the narrow passage between table and window does Castiel dare look up. “Are you well? Not your sister or brother, I hope?”

“No indeed, it is-” Dean breaks off to look very earnestly at the man across the table. Durst he tell the truth? “I have not told you my whole history,” he sighs. “May I tell you now?”

“Of course, I would know everything about you!”

“It is a letter from my daughter.” He cannot hold back anything from the baron, and he tells him all.

Upon the conclusion of Dean’s tale, Cas bows and asks only, “You permitted them, the neighbourhood, your family even, to think the worst of you-”

“-the gambling, yes, the clubs-”

“-to protect her. That no one would know-”

“-or little suspect that such a person existed. Yes.” He scrapes a hand across his mouth in a gesture of shame and disbelief, though they are his own truths he relates. “I never had a hope of bringing her home. Even when her mother- After poor Lydia’s passing, I saw to it that my Emma, for such I thought of her, was sent to a good school amongst good people and left to the care of a good woman.” He pauses to look again over the letter. “Good, perhaps, but not good-hearted. For it would seem that Emma is no longer welcome. She writes that all her hopes depend on her being given shelter in the home of her particular friend. Castiel, she does not even ask if she may find a home with me! What misery, to despair of the love of one’s own father!”

“Indeed so.”

Softer he adds, “I know the sensation only too well, and it is not to be borne that I should be the cause of the same.” For some minutes he seems to deliberate, gazing out upon thick grass curtained in gentle mists, hardly daring to ask and yet desperate to do so. At length, he squares his shoulders and, turning, meets Castiel’s eyes. “Is it too much to ask- is it possible? May I invite her to make her home here, at Elysium?”

Lord Novak stands and joins Dean at the window, silently contemplating that same empty scenery, until Dean begins to fear his husband harbours grave misgivings.

“Cas?”

“Of course, Dean. Yes, of course your daughter will always be welcome.” He turns now, and his smile is genuine and warm, and Dean relaxes at once into his own easy smile. “If she is yours, I wish her also to be mine.”

“Cas,” he breathes, scarcely trusting his voice.

“However,” and the atmosphere freezes once more, “you should know that I have also had a letter, though mine came yesterday.” His eyes drop from Dean’s face to his own empty hands. “From _my_ daughter.”

Dean’s eyes widen in a comical manner and he is rendered completely speechless. “You?” he stammers at last.

Cas shrugs and spreads his arms wide. “Back when I was a captain, when I was young and foolish and susceptible to the suggestion of younger, more foolish men.” He smiles wryly and adds, “When a handsome redcoat bids you follow him into a den of iniquity, resistance becomes quite impossible.”

“A whore, Cas?” Dean has never thought to hear his husband utter more shocking words, and he does not know whether to faint or run mad.

Castiel just nods. “I am not proud of my actions, Dean. The girl- One look confirmed that she was chastity personified. I should have been ashamed to so much as speak to her, a girl so young- Had she been one of us (a gentleman’s daughter, that is) I wonder, would she have been out.” He kneels before Dean to complete the confession, and Dean allows him to take his hand. “Her name was Amelia. We talked, we spoke of her history, of her father, of how she had come to such a place, and I found that I had such compassion for this poor freindless creature. I found myself in her cramped quarters night after night, if not for her … company, then to prevent others from defiling her.”

“Cas.”

“Please, I would speak. I gave her a good situation, I wrote to her and sent her presents whenever I could contrive it, were it only a guinea under the seal. But I could not offer her a home and a life with me. Because I knew by then how it would be, how she would be neglected and I would pine ever for, shall we say, other delights” (his look full of meaning). “Ere long I learned that she was with child. Perhaps it was mine, perhaps not. But I have always thought of little Claire with such love and devotion and never once have I scrupled to give her all that I have, even if it means I fund the care of another man’s daughter.” He smiles then: “She is mine.”

Dean blinks. “Her name is Claire.”

“Yes. Fair-haired and bright-eyed, and so clever, Dean! She is strong and sturdy and she will never permit any one to forget that she is the daughter of a gentleman.” His smile fades somewhat as he recalls, “Her mother married a man who was prepared to accept the story that she was widowed young, but he never did accept her child. When Amelia bore him at last a son, he removed Claire from his home posthaste, sending her to a school in Southampton.” He pulls the letter from the pocket of his flannel waistcoat, turning it over and over in his hands several times, before placing it over top of the letter from Dean’s daughter. “They are the same, you see, the addresses.”

“This is impossible.”

Cas frowns. “Quite improbable, certainly. I cannot guess how much your Emma has told you, but Claire writes that she has heard of our … arrangement. She hopes that it is true, as she must inform me that she has formed a similar attachment at school.”

Dean’s head snaps up suddenly at that. “No! You mean to say that my Emma and your Claire-”

“-are in love. Yes.” Cas’ eyes soften and his lips curve upward. “Perhaps it is a family trait, this unwillingness to conform to society’s wont for procreative marriage between the sexes.”

“Perhaps it is,” Dean allows. He pulls his husband close and kisses him breathless. “Congratulations, Castiel: you shall have not one but two daughters to grace your sad bachelor’s home!”

He returns Dean’s radiant smile. “I could not have hoped for greater happiness. My Life! my Soul!”

“My Adorable Angel!”

Adeiu  
Yr Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10536/10536_300.jpg)

 

 

Friday 15 April 1796

My dearest Alethea, it is now three months to the day that we first encountered our darling Mr Winchester and his divine Lord Novak. How much has been said between us on the subject! That you save the letters that tell their tale does me more credit than it does you, but so long as you keep them well-concealed, I think we can be in no grave danger of discovery. I have saved no copy for myself and shall be glad to read again my brilliant and daring words when we meet at Manydown again. Only think that in ten days’ time we shall be together, my dearest! I have longed to see your sweet family, as well as savor a few more glasses of the orange wine! But all of that has been said again and again in the longer letter for all. You must permit me to direct your attention back to Elysium for the moment.

Mr and Miss Winchester have made themselves quite at home in the magnificent old house in Derbyshire. Lord Novak and his sister delight in their company, in their conversation and their diverse musical talents, in their noise and in their silences. Castiel is more satisfied in his choice of a partner than many a man in love with the fairer sex. Anna, though not partnered for the same sort of romantic love, has in Josephine an amiable and eager companion, a great-hearted girl of more spirit than taste. The additions of Miss Claire and Miss Emma, both fitted with the surnames of their fathers and handsomely elevated to all the privileges a ward of Lord Novak’s could hope to expect, quite complete the family circle.

The neighbourhood around Shipley has ever benefitted from the great goodness of Elysium. The Novaks and their permanent guests are forever in the town on some mission of kindness to the poor and the bedridden, and the people who live there are disposed to turn aside the malicious gossip that outsiders would lay at their door. Even if one were to suppose the rumors to be true, what cause have simple villagers to fault Castiel, Lord Novak, that blessed angel on earth, for his habits at home? They themselves see every day the harm, the neglect, the violence born of less than perfect matches. They see how the poor scrabble for another shilling, another meal, another desperate day in their too-thin mortal coils, and they see how the two families of Elysium share and give and work so tirelessly to provide their neighbours with good incomes and decent homes and schooling for the children. Will the line of Novak die with the seventh baron? It matters little to the common folk of the town. Better they save their breath to cool their porridge.

As for the old families of the neighbourhood, they do not question the understanding between the Novaks of Elysium and the Hampshire Winchesters, so long as Lord Novak is pleased to give a ball once or twice (or more) in a twelvemonth. The Honourable Miss Novak, though not overly fond of a ball for her own pleasure, does herself credit, and her parties have been said to outshine those of certain court favourites. However, were you to ask Miss Novak what makes her balls so superior, she would reply that the vivacious Miss Winchester adds just the right sparkle to any setting. To see her laugh and twirl upon the dance floor! Her lightness of foot and easy smiles make the whole company easy and gay, and never do the gentlemen talk of a prettier partner than she, though she will allow none of them to win her. She is all contentment, and her delight inhabits every heart.

It is after one such revel that the tired hosts and their sisters (the younger ladies having retired some time earlier) lounge together most indecorously on the sofas so lately abandoned by indolent chaperones, when they are startled to hear visitors announced. Almost before they can shift to make themselves presentable, who should enter but the younger Winchester brother, accompanied by Miss Morningstar!

“Sam!” exclaims Dean, and he rushes to embrace his brother. Whatever he and Mr Morningstar have plotted, Dean (and Jo) have missed Sam exceedingly and will not keep a cool distance. Both he and his fiancée are led most graciously into the room and invited to sit. “Will you have something to drink? I can ring for-”

“No, thank you, brother. You can guess that this is not a typical social call.”

“Pray explain yourself. We have heard nothing since Lucifer’s- pardon, since Mr Morningstar’s- men found us in London.”

“Exactly! That is why we have come. We have only just heard of the affair ourselves, and we are come to clarify a great misunderstanding.”

“I told you how it would be,” crows Jo.

“You see, we- Mr Morningstar and I- had agreed that nothing could go further in my marriage to Ruby until we had your approbation. But there were some … questions, regarding the relationship between Chevrolet and Garrison House. We did not dare to anger Lord Novak” with a nod toward that gentleman “and I could not get an answer from you, Dean.”

“An answer? I have had no letters, no correspondence of any kind!”

“Precisely. The letters were delivered to Chevrolet and no further. The men who called at aunt Harville’s sought information on your whereabouts. If they enquired farther into … personal matters, that was beyond the scope of the mission and we will hold them to account.”

“But I wrote to you myself, Sam!” Jo exclaims. “How did that letter come to be so grossly mislaid?”

“I must take the blame for that,” Miss Morningstar adds quietly.

“You?” Dean is incredulous.

“I found the letter in my bundle of post, and I opened it before I knew. The accusations that you thought my father had made! I was both livid and mortified, but humiliation ruled the day and I- I burnt the letter before Sam could see.” She hangs her head, and Sam, after a brief glance at her bowed head, follows suit.

“When she came forward at last, I had to act quickly. I mistrusted the post and so we have come ourselves to set things aright between us. Ruby has a peace offering to make.”

“As I am heiress to La Cage after my father, I wonder, Miss Winchester, if you would accept a portion of my dowry to be added to your own.”

“Oh! I couldn’t.”

“You can, and you should. It would make me feel easier after the pain I have given.”

“I have a different idea,” Dean says. “Jo, Castiel, with me, please.”

They disappear some moments in private conference.

Jo returns first, her enthusiasm for Dean’s scheme glowing in her eyes. She rushes straight to Anna to share the news, but she finds that the older girl has, as ever, divined it from thin air.

“Mrs. Braeden?”

“Yes,” Jo exclaims. Turning to Sam, she says, “Dean wishes to relay his idea himself. He and Castiel will follow shortly- they crave only a congratulatory moment.”

No sooner are the words spoken but the pair reappear, eyes bright with joy and lips perhaps a shade pinker, and they are all smiles. “Go tell them,” whispers Castiel. “I see my omniscient sister knows,” with a nod towards the ladies of the house.

Dean clears his throat. “On my last visit to the village, I became acquainted with the delicate predicament of one of our favourite tenants. She has already such a houseful of children, and the midwife beleives that she should expect twins. She and her husband, a sturdy fellow and a good worker but for an injury last season that left him nearly incapable of earning his living, they have already given voice to the fear that one more child should quite ruin them, and here are two!” Dean grins as he approaches the good news of his tale. “There has been talk amongst us of Cas taking a male ward and entailing the family fortunes upon the child, that the four of us may all continue here in safety and comfort, whosoever should die first. You will understand this better than I, brother, with your head for the law.”

“I do,” says he, but he looks troubled.

“Their eldest boy, also Benjamin, a kind and handsome lad of rather more inclination for study than for labour, is of an age now where he must undertake a profession, as his family can no longer send him to school. Instead, Mrs Braeden, knowing our spirit of generosity, knowing that she and hers shall never want again, has consented to give us the charge of her child, to raise as a Novak and the heir of Elysium.” He cannot contain his smiles. “The moment that the proper letters are signed, before the ink is dry, dear brother, Lord Novak’s man will be drawing up the papers to turn over the whole of the Winchester fortune, such as it is, to one Mr Samuel Winchester and his bride.”

Sam lets out a shout, and Dean and Jo step forward as one to shake hands with their brother and sister-to-be and to receive their thanks. “It is too much,” Sam says, more than once.

“Chevrolet will be your home always, Sam, if you so wish it.”

“I do! I do wish it. I am stunned! I had no thought, scarcely any idea in coming here that we should ever be freinds again. For the story to end so happily, I can hardly beleive it. To have your blessing, let alone your birthright, Dean; for us to know that our children, Ruby, will have another cousin!”

“You do not know the half of it, dear brother,” but he defers farther discussion.

“It is all too much!”

Dean rings for champagne and a tray of cold meats, and the joyous family celebrates past dawn and well into the breakfast hour.

Sam and Ruby, as she is soon called by all, even by the painfully formal Lord Novak, are loath to leave Elysium before they can see their new nephew and acquaint themselves with Emma and The Honourable Claire Novak. They write to Mr Morningstar to share the great good news and to excuse their delay in returning to Milton. Of course the news flies around the neighborhood on great black wings, to no one’s surprize, and as it spreads, Elysium receives a flood of prayers for their happiness from all of the Winchesters’ oldest and dearest freinds. Oh, ’Thea, how much joy is heaped upon their little family circle, strange though it be! Every kind letter is returned with an impassioned entreaty to visit, and soon the house, already full to bursting with love and freindship, quite overflows with fond company and good cheer. Mrs Mills and Mrs Tran undertake the conveyance of half a dozen young people from Hampshire, and Miss Charlotte Bradbury arrives with another trio of girls. Even the London family, Aunt Harville and the Winterses and their children, make the journey to Derbyshire, curious if not eager to know more intimately the heir and heiresses of Elysium.

Lord Novak and Mr Winchester, their sisters, and their daughters welcome and somehow accommodate all of their guests, and rumor would have it that under their roof, all are safe from the stricter interpretations of love to be found in the wide world. Indeed, the Derbyshire Novaks enjoy a special reputation for generosity and mercy. It is known that Elysium offers succour and sanctuary to those queer few whose affections run counter to the patriotic ideal.

Perhaps more should be said on the subject of the future happiness of all these participants. I could write volumes and never begin to capture the satisfaction of Dean and Castiel with any likeness to do it justice, such was the joy they had found, in their children, in their sisters, in their children and sisters’ often superior happinesses, and most of all in themselves. From that first dance, dearest Alethea, must depend the good wishes and the good fortune of two worthy families and the neighbourhoods that gave them life, raised them, and gave them wings. _Fin._

Adeiu, my Dearest  
I am ever yours, most affectionately  
Jane

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/chemart/70096648/10455/10455_300.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to sit down and footnote every reference I have included here (actually, no, I really wouldn't), but the end result would be unwieldy and unreadable. I have leaned heavily on dear Jane, not as a crutch, but as one might pose beside a great monument. Most people who read this will have at least a passing appreciation for Austen's novels, from which I anachronistically borrowed because every word is gold. But if you have never read her letters, nor her juvenilia, then you don't yet know the real Aunt Jane: wickedly funny, irreverent, shrewd as all get out, and much more of a Lydia Bennet than the staid, sober Anne Elliot that her early biographers would have had you believe. The version I present here aims to capture that sharp-tongued youthful exuberance. I hope I did her justice, and I promise you, if there was a line here that you liked, it probably came from the writings of the historical Jane Austen. 
> 
> Who, by the way, was not necessarily queer. I base her fictional relationship with Alethea on the simple fact that she spent an awful lot of time visiting at Manydown, and yet almost no correspondence with that house survives. We do know that Jane's sister burnt most of her letters after her death; was she hiding some shocking secret?! Truth is, we know very little about Alethea Bigg and her sisters, and of their brother we know little more: that Jane accepted his proposal of marriage only to change her mind by morning... What was Jane's relationship with Manydown really like? Impossible to say... But that doesn't mean we can't speculate!
> 
> If you ever want to talk Jane, Destiel, and/or queer headcanons, find me on tumblr: [ilikebeesandflowers](http://ilikebeesandflowers.tumblr.com/)... 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
